


TipTop

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anthropomorphic, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Smauglock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2525837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer gives Bilbo a hard time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TipTop

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks to abbeyjewel for betaing~
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Usually, Bilbo’s moans are a beautiful thing, sounds that resonate through Smaug’s body and make him glow, make him drape tighter around his little hobbit and grin with love. Tonight, he hears the laboured breath, and warning bells go off in his ears. He shifts and twists back his head, and the low glimmer off the coins lights the underside of Bilbo’s pretty face, now scrunched in obvious pain.

Smaug’s first instinct is distress, but the hot air his nostrils spew out over Bilbo’s curled body only make it worse. Bilbo makes a keening noise and twists, legs stretching out and kicking treasure. He moans again, and Smaug’s chest constricts.

A bad dream, perhaps. Hobbits, Smaug is told, don’t dream that different from dragons. He nudges Bilbo’s shoulder with his snout, just the barest few centimeters; he is big, toweringly so, but he knows how to be gentle with his prized possessions. A second nudge, and Bilbo stirs, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. He exhales and rolls his head back, blinking up at his beast of a lover.

Smaug murmurs, “You had a bad dream, little one?” But that only makes Bilbo whimper, his honey hair dancing in the wind of Smaug’s breath.

“Too _hot_ ,” Bilbo mumbles, still sleep addled, and he wipes at his eyes. When he leans back, his shoulder hits Smaug’s side; they always sleep nested together. But tonight, Bilbo pulls away again, turning pink in the cheeks and murmuring, “I’m sorry, you’re just... you’re very hot.”

The genuine discomfort on Bilbo’s face holds Smaug back from any clever comments. Instead, he simply frowns and tilts his head away so that the steam of his breath won’t fly in Bilbo’s direction. Bilbo shakes his head and pushes up on his arms, swaying as he sits—he’s so very _cute_ when he’s tired.

Then he starts to strip away his clothes, and he goes from cute to beautiful. Smaug watches with rapt attention as Bilbo brushes his blue coat from his shoulders, exposing creamy skin that Smaug knows to be so impossibly _soft_. Bilbo fiddles with his belt, turning pinker, and mutters, “I’m just trying to cool down, mind.” Which sounds like it should mean: this is _not_ an invitation, but Bilbo never finishes the thought. He pulls his belt aside and looks up at Smaug, mouth open like he wants to explain.

“You’re mortal,” Smaug fills in. “The summer is harder on you.” He should’ve known this would happen as the seasons changed, now that he has flesh and blood to worry over. But a dragon needn’t care about such ephemeral things, and he’s still adjusting.

Bilbo nods his head. “You understand.”

Not exactly. “You’re not in the Shire anymore. You don’t have to fuss over modesty.” On the contrary, Smaug rather enjoys his hobbit bare, and he can see in Bilbo’s eyes that he must know that.

But hobbits are such _proper_ things, Smaug is told, even ones that enjoy adventures and dwarves and carry tiny swords. Bilbo nods his head anyway, as though to say he knew that, but he still looks embarrassed as he strips. It’s not as if it’s the first time he’s done so in front of Smaug. But that’s usually in the heat of the moment, caught up in a fog of lust, and not so very out-of-the-blue. He’s clumsier as he pulls his shirt over his head, not as harried or purposeful as when it’s a prelude to more. When he pushes his pants down his legs, he leaves his underwear on, and Smaug makes a conscious effort not lick his lips and go in to rip that last shred of fabric away.

His hobbit _is_ beautiful. So very gorgeous, lying nearly naked in Smaug’s bed of jewels. He uses his discarded clothes like bedding, and he stretches out along it, and he lies on his back and turns his face away from Smaug’s body, still generating heat like a fire. It would be much cooler for Bilbo to go lie in one of the grand halls not containing a dragon, but Smaug’s glad that Bilbo doesn’t suggest such a thing. He makes do as he is, with his skin shimmering with infinitesimal beads of sweat, chest heaving up and down. His dusty nipples are half pebbled, his thighs pink, his bangs slicked across his forehead. For a few torturous minutes—Smaug knows ravaging Bilbo like this would only make the heat worse, but Bilbo is so, _so_ very alluring, whether he knows it or not—all Smaug can do is watch. Bilbo adjusts his position twice, first onto his side, and then over onto his front, so Smaug can watch the elegant curve of his spine and the round rise of his rear.

Then Bilbo moans, “I can’t do it. It’s just too hot tonight. _You’re_ too hot.” It doesn’t sound like an accusation so much as a sorrowful observation, and that helps to soften the blow.

Nonetheless, Smaug feels responsible. He stares at Bilbo, pondering, then rumbles, “Perhaps another form...?”

“Can you sleep in that?” Bilbo asks around a yawn, lips opening wide. A shiver runs down Smaug’s spiked back, and he nods his great head.

“It isn’t a solution for every night, draining on my magic as it is, but I should be able to manage one night...” And the others... they’ll think of something.

For now, he enjoys Bilbo’s happy smile; he knows Bilbo likes his humanoid form. He’s sure Bilbo likes his true form too, but the smaller one makes it so much easier for them to hold one another. Without bothering to move so much as the tip of his tail, Smaug reaches inside himself, tugs on the ancient magic long since lost to the rest of this world, and pulls it back around himself like a veil. He can feel it bursting to life before he’s even finished calling it. It wraps around his body and sucks, air-tight, against his scales, pushes them in and filters his mass down into more manageable blocks, rearranges his bones and his veins. The light it generates is striking, and by the time it’s settled back down, he can see Bilbo shielding his eyes with one arm.

Bilbo is uncharacteristically gigantic. Still smaller than Smaug, but much bigger than Smaug is used to. Of course, it’s Smaug himself that’s changed, but it’s still odd to have Bilbo taking up so very much of his vision. He smiles with his new mouth, reaches out with his new arm, catches Bilbo’s damp hair in his long fingers. He’s compressed himself into the body of a man, keeping only two horns and the tail and a few sparse, crimson scales here and there. Bilbo leans into his touch and grins up at him, making Smaug’s new heart beat harder against the walls of his chest.

He leans in to kiss Bilbo’s cheek, but Bilbo’s little hands land on his stomach and push him away. “You’re still very warm.” He says it just in time for Smaug to stop his tail from curling around Bilbo’s waist and pulling him nearer. Up close, Bilbo’s scent is intoxicating. Smaug’s instinct to mate with him spikes. But Smaug is a better boyfriend than that, and he holds himself back and drops his hands away from Bilbo’s endearing body.

“Thank you,” Bilbo mumbles. He leans in and darts up to give Smaug a quick peck on the lips that Smaug naughtily tries to press back to lengthen, but Bilbo darts back a second later. “You’re very good to me.”

“I love you,” Smaug purrs simply. It’s a fact that he tells Bilbo constantly, but it still makes Bilbo smile every time.

“I love you too, you breathing furnace.”

Smaug grins with pointed teeth. It’s less comfortable, lying down on hard stones and metal with soft flesh instead of scales, but it’s not bad enough to stop him. Hobbits, apparently, are tougher than men in this area—they don’t, after all, wear shoes the same way. Smaug arranges himself in an arch, something of a circle, with Bilbo at the center, curling up even smaller to fit between Smaug’s arms and legs and tail. He starts facing Smaug, then shakes his head fondly and rolls over the other way. It takes a great deal of effort to resist spooning him.

There are beds, somewhere in the catacombs. Old, falling-apart dwarven beds, not much better than coins comfort-wise, and still too small for Smaug to manage. This is the most condensed form of his. But perhaps Bilbo would prefer them. Bilbo fidgets to get comfortable, and Smaug lazily watches him, until he rolls back over and sighs, “Oh, it’s no good! It’s like one giant inferno in here!”

Smaug is busy slowly licking his bow lips, and he only stops at Bilbo’s sudden scolding look. It’s hardly his fault that his little Bilbo is _so_ very perfect. Not being able to touch Bilbo is it’s own special kind of torture—they can’t go the whole summer like this.

So Smaug rolls onto his back and commits himself to thinking. This is a problem that must be solved, and he’s clever enough to handle it.

“I don’t want to sleep away from you,” Bilbo mumbles, and Smaug merely nods, because of course, he agrees. That simply isn’t an option. When he glances sideways, Bilbo’s expression is so sorrowful that it makes Smaug physically _hurt_ , and he shakes his head. That won’t happen. He won’t let it happen. They’re one, now. They don’t work... apart.

When he looks back at the roof off the cave, his yellow eyes slide over a crick in the stone; an overhang that hides a passage, far away and wide enough to let a dragon through. The overhang protects it from snow sliding through in the winter, and even in the fall, because so high...

“What is it?”

“Mm?” Smaug spares another look at his hobbit.

“You’re smirking.”

Smaug makes no effort to stop. Instead, he lunges at Bilbo, scooping Bilbo into his arms, and Bilbo yelps and latches onto his neck. Smaug rolls them over so that he’s on top, so his back has room to split into the great wings that he lets unfurl, more snippets from his true form that rise into the open air. When they beat, it sends a gust of wind that scatters more coins, and Smaug clutches Bilbo close to protect him. Another beat, and he wedges his knee below them, uses it for a kick-off—they rise into the air.

Bilbo, by now, knows what to do—he swings his legs up, and Smaug catches them, cradling Bilbo like a new bride, and Bilbo holds tight to his shoulders and his hair and nuzzles into his neck to avoid the rush of wind. Smaug soars through the darkness, up to the arching ceiling, and nears the familiar slit that takes them into the sun—or now, the moon.

It’s lighter outside. The stars are everywhere, first a glimmer around the stone, then an ever-reaching blanket as Smaug clears the tunnel, bursting out into the open air. It’s crisp and cool and thin, light, so very different from the stuffy confines of their home. There’s no snow on this stretch of rock, but when Smaug settles down, it’s cool beneath his feet. He lowers to the floor, wings folding back in, and places Bilbo gently on the stone.

But Bilbo tugs Smaug with him. Bilbo rolls onto his back, still holding Smaug around the neck, and takes Smaug down like a blanket, all overtop of him. He murmurs, “Ahh, that was a good idea,” and pecks Smaug’s cheek.

Smaug is glowing. The wind is gentle, though chilling, but Smaug’s body is a fire, and he presses it down into Bilbo’s body. Bilbo nuzzles into the hollow of his throat, clings to his shoulders and wraps thick thighs around his waist, while Smaug kisses his hobbit’s head, wraps strong arms around his body and grinds him into the stone. Smaug whispers, “Better?” And he can feel Bilbo nod into him.

He can feel Bilbo’s breath along his collarbone, no longer laboured. He can feel Bilbo’s sweaty skin along his, dying down to a more reasonable temperature, chest no longer heaving to breathe. The wind laps gently at his side, but Smaug protects his front. Smaug curls all around him and feels _so much better_ , now that his dear mate is safe.

The last thing Bilbo says before he sleeps is a garbled, “I love you,” pressed into Smaug’s shoulder. Smaug echoes it in a rumbling purr and follows him off to the sanctity of dreamland.


End file.
